


First Light

by fengirl88



Series: Kiss Chase [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Kissbingo, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-06
Updated: 2011-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-14 11:21:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Waking up with Sherlock at last feels almost too good to be true; then he remembers the last few weeks, Moriarty and what followed, and he knows it’s not just a dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Light

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt square "body: ears" on my kissbingo card. Third in the series that began with Kiss Chase and continued with Worse Things. Thanks to blooms84 and ginbitch for the beta. This is for kalypso_v, with thanks for our conversations about slash and related matters, because she liked the first two in this series so much, and also because the Wyatt!fic isn't written yet. Happy Sherlock's birthday!

He wakes up with something tickling his nose, and realizes it’s Sherlock’s hair. He's lying behind Sherlock, one arm flung heavily across Sherlock's body. Must have fallen asleep at last, John thinks fuzzily, though he’d meant to stay awake and watch over Sherlock in case the nightmare came back. He's not sure what woke him – maybe a noise somewhere, or maybe just the light coming through the curtains now.

Waking up with Sherlock at last feels almost too good to be true. Then he remembers the last few weeks, Moriarty and what followed, and he knows it’s not just a dream.

John presses his face against the back of Sherlock’s head and breathes him in, wanting to fill his lungs with Sherlock, fill his whole body. He hears Sherlock’s breathing hitch, and knows he’s awake, though neither of them says anything. He hopes Sherlock isn’t regretting what’s happened between them. In one sense very little has. A few hours sharing a bed, heat exchange, hugging, a few chaste kisses to one side of Sherlock’s face.

In another sense, everything’s changed, and they both know it. Something they weren’t admitting is out in the open now: the significance of that other kiss, the one they still haven’t talked about, in the rubble of the swimming-pool after the bomb went off. The intensity is wonderful and frightening at the same time.

John nuzzles Sherlock’s earlobe, then kisses him just behind the ear. Sherlock gasps and jerks his hips, pushing his cock against John’s hand. The tip is already wet; John wonders how long Sherlock’s been lying there in that state, feels his own already half-hard cock stiffening at the thought. He strokes his thumb slowly around the head of Sherlock's cock, spreading the moisture, enjoying Sherlock's sharp intake of breath. He kisses Sherlock’s ear again, pulling gently at the outside edge with his lips covering his teeth, and then darting the tip of his tongue inside.

Sherlock moans and pushes harder against John's hand; the sound and the movement together make John feel powerful and almost unbearably excited. He rubs his own erection against Sherlock's back as he goes on caressing him, and sucks his earlobe, adding a hint of teeth as Sherlock whimpers and begs him _please John yes that_. Sherlock’s hand closes around his, urging him to press harder, move faster, and he does, till they’re both panting and Sherlock seems very close to coming.

But he doesn’t – instead he stills John’s hand and lifts it away, turns so they’re lying face to face, his cock touching John’s. Sherlock begins rocking his hips, pressing against John, sliding their cocks together. It’s John’s turn to catch his breath, because he can’t remember the last time anything felt this good.

“I’ve been _wanting_ you so much,” Sherlock says, as if he can hardly believe it.

“Me too,” John says. He feels too overwhelmed to say anything else. The friction’s sending dizzying waves of sensation right through him, all the way from his scalp to the soles of his feet.

“So afraid,” Sherlock says shakily, pulling him closer and thrusting hard against him.

He doesn’t know, can’t ask, whether Sherlock means he _was_ afraid or still _is_. All he can do is try to make his body say to Sherlock’s _it’s OK, I’m with you now, we’re together_. Say it with every caress, every pressure, every push of his thigh between Sherlock’s, every movement of his hips; in the way his hands grip Sherlock’s shoulders and slide down to his buttocks and the backs of his thighs, the way his limbs tangle with Sherlock’s.

The same message, over and over, in their racing heartbeats, in every shaky breath; and then another begins: _yours, yours now, completely yours_. Written in shudders and pulses and gasps and sighs, in the lost clinging grasp that pulls them into each other till there's no self left, only this thing they make together.

They lie quiet at last, John sprawled across Sherlock’s chest, Sherlock stroking his hair and kissing the top of his head. John kisses the hollow of Sherlock’s throat and Sherlock moans and twists away from his lips and tongue.

“Sorry,” John says thickly.

“No – it’s – it’s good,” Sherlock says. “It’s lovely, it’s just – too much.”

Sherlock sounds so uncharacteristically vulnerable and so completely undone that John can hardly bear it. The thought that _he’s_ done this to Sherlock makes his throat feel tight with a mixture of exultation and fear. He wants passionately to protect Sherlock from anything and everything that could harm him, to hold him and keep him safe forever even though he knows it’s impossible. He wills his left hand to stop shaking, but the tremor’s still there as they tumble heavily into sleep again.

On the coffee-table downstairs, the pink phone blinks, unseen. The message on the screen reads: One new missed call.


End file.
